Otherwise, Mr. Bulris would not be Mr. December, sporting a big
grin, ample skin, and a well-placed bow carefully guarding his
modesty.

Actually, none of Vistoso Village's distinguished retirees would
be posing as pinups for a wall calendar - Mr. Myhr wouldn't be Mr.
March, and Mr. Wiczynski wouldn't be Mr. September - except that
somebody made a joke.

That somebody was Judy Humitz. She and her friend Diane Uhl were
driving in their gated Vistoso Village community off Rancho Vistoso
Boulevard, several months ago, when they spotted a fellow resident
out scrubbing his driveway.

"What are you two up to?" Mr. February asked, although at the
time he was just Jim Aldrich. His tone implied that "mischief" was
his guess.

Humitz hated to disappoint.

"We're scouting for male models for the center of our calendar,"
she quipped. It was the first thought that entered her mind.

Barely clothed seniors were on Humitz's mind for the same reason
they've been on minds of movie watchers across the globe since
"Calendar Girls" was released in 2003.

The movie's premise is this: A bunch of genteel ladies from the
Women's Institute (that's British for "Junior League") pose nearly
nude to create a fund-raising calendar. They just want to buy a
couch - a memorial for a dead husband - but they end up with a
bestseller and an invitation to Hollywood.

As a result of the movie, senior groups throughout England have
stepped up to publish their own racy calendars for charity - from
gardeners in Glouchestershire to librarians in London.

In the United States, a prim Red Hat Social Club from New Jersey
produced "Beach Bums 2005," and models to the south offered
"Treasures of South Texas 2005."

But in Vistoso Village, the calendar idea was just a joke - at
the start.

"They're trying to put a calendar together, and they want guys
to represent different months," said Aldrich to a friend, just
months before he became Mr. February. "What would you say if they
asked you?"

To Mr. October, then just Larry Keith, that sounded kind of
fun.

The tongue-in-cheek conversation took place at Vistoso Village's
weekly Friday social, a gathering notorious for inspiring crazy
ideas.

The social group was the same one from which someone dreamed up
Dilly Duck - the stuffed character that arrives in a basket on your
driveway each time it's your turn to be in charge of the community
center's lockup.

Dilly exists, now, and sports a knitted hat and scarf because
one resident thought he looked cold.

In much the same way, Vistoso Village's far-fetched calendar
joke started to come alive.

"What if we made money on it so we could get something we need?"
Humitz wondered, after more than a couple of men facetiously vied
for prime calendar spots.

Other groups had raised big bucks with nearly naked members
hiding behind everything from their pastries to their pets. And
Vistoso Village excelled at fund raising. That's why its community
center had fans, pool-side furniture, and fine drapery.

Uhl and Humitz got serious about their joke. They scouted out 12
models and recited the stipulations. One prop - a flower pot, or a
beach ball, perhaps - was all they'd get.